Explosions
by awdrilinia2point0
Summary: In the year after the war, Draco and Hermione have grown sick of maintaining (and for Draco, salvaging) their reputations. An offer to escape and prolong their entries into adulthood and what could be very dissatisfactory futures makes them both rethink what their lives should be in the postwar. Rated T for now, but the rating could change in future chapters.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One: Goodbye, Manor

 **Early April 1999**

He, for one, looked forward to the demolition. After two difficult (an understatement) years taking orders from a monster and months of being ushered in and out of courts, legal offices, and, at the very beginning, prison cells, the Malfoys had received their final judgment. Draco felt relief wash over him as a crew of wizards pointed their wands and shouted their bombardment spells, as if it were a ceremony of sorts. Beside him, his father fought back the shiny coat of tears that reflected the image of their home imploding into itself, leaving nothing but rubble and smoke.

With an almost pathetic, crepitating sound, Malfoy Manor was no more. From their spot on the side of the hill near the once immaculate garden, a dozen house elves refused to contain their cheers. Before Draco could say anything, he felt his father collapse to the ground beside him, choking on his sobs. "Father, I…"

 **March 1999**

"Now, for your all but principal role in facilitating the attacks on numerous members of our community, funding and participating in a fundamentalist terrorist coalition, and engaging in what many could call _crimes against humanity_ ," the Chief Warlock paused to clear his throat. Fifty three pairs of eyes stared sternly at them. "For these reasons, the Wizengamont, along with the Ministry of Magic, should reserve the right to sentence at least you, Lucius Malfoy, to life in Azkaban."

"Chief Warlock, I"—

"Call me Your Honor, Malfoy."

Lucius scowled. "Weas—I mean, but _Chief Warlock_ "—

"Last warning!"

"Oh, Arthur, will you just let it _go_?" Arthur Weasley, the newly appointed Chief of the Wizengamot sighed with frustration. The Minister of Magic had requested—demanded, more like—a total overhaul of the system. _Bring in fresh faces_! he had commanded. _No more of this wishy washy old pure blood shite. I want a_ revolution. And so, Arthur Weasley, once happy with his humble position fixing jinxed television sets and VHS-playing machines, had landed a spot at this very table.

He cleared his throat again. "As I was saying, Mr. Malfoy: your actions during the Second Wizarding War were, you must agree, less than worthy of exoneration."

"Yes, _Your Honor_. But, as I have stated in my deposition, I deflected and have made efforts to make amends through our donations to the Ministry, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and the victims of the attacks. And if you look at my wife's file, you'll see clearly that Harry Potter owes her his life. We only ask for you to recognize the energy that we exerted to pay our dues…" Lucius Malfoy spent weeks after the battle trying to cover his family's asses by donating thousands of galleons to organizations that defended muggleborn rights and even went as far as to set up accounts at Gringotts for the prisoners held at the manor. Hadn't all this been enough? Back when he was in school, Lucius's father taught him that while actions spoke louder than words, galleons were commandments. In the past, Abraxas's words served him well, and Lucius, for his part, saw no reason to discontinue following this advice—at least not until he found himself standing before Arthur _Weasley,_ expected to grovel for the freedom that the red-haired Chief Warlock dangled before his very eyes.

Weasley chuckled. "Yes, and we all thank you for making us all a few galleons more capable of repairing the physical and psychological damages that you and your _comrades_ inflicted on our friends and families. And it is also true that we all thank your _ex_ -wife, Narcissa _Black_ for her part in ensuring a path to justice and victory." He could almost feel Weasley's inability to contain his enjoyment.

Ah, yes. That.

"As it stands, if it were up to _me_ , I would say that the _just_ thing to do were to have you locked up this very instant." Lucius grimaced, a lump began to swell in his throat. "And yet," Weasley bellowed, "as I have been made to understand, the Law is not about Justice. The Law is about _Technicality_. Loopholes. Empty gaps made to be filled by the corruption of justice, rather than its validation." The man rolled his eyes and shot a glance at the witch who had interrupted him earlier. "And because of such technicalities, a group of old German muggles continue living happily in Argentina. Because of such technicalities, Margaret Thatcher's reign in muggle Britain continues to show its deleterious effects on the working class population of this state…" Could he get on with the muggle references already?

"Arthur…"

"I'm nearly there, Shafiq!" He turned to Lucius again. "Because of such technicalities, your wife, son, and other Death Eaters who 'defected,'" he raised his middle and fore fingers to make air quotes, "have had their records expunged of criminal charges. And because of such technicalities, you Lucius Malfoy, will walk free this afternoon."

A sigh of relief translated to tears, once brimming with anxiety, streaming down his cheeks. "Thank you, Chief Warlock—I assure you that you won't regr"—

"With two conditions!"

What Weasley said next affected him more than he could show, so, like the well-trained Malfoy that his father raised, he merely nodded and swallowed that creeping lump. Yet, from the corner of his left eye, he could see Draco and Narcissa looking at him in the same way that they had since the end of the War. Regret. Fear. Hopelessness. All of the sudden, Lucius felt more impotent than he had when the Dark Lord had castrated him of his wand.

 **Early April 1999**

Draco felt for a while now that this had all been nonsense; no one was indomitable, and, if one were to be, it certainly would not be his blubbering father. Sure, he had affection toward the man, interpolated with a sense of compunction about following in his footsteps. But as he saw his childhood home, along with all of the unsavory memories of the last three years, collapse into itself, he could not share the same sense of desperation that he read upon his father's face. For the older man, this moment sealed the end of an era; for Draco, however, the destruction of the Malfoy Manor, along with the obliteration of the phony reputation that it represented, launched the beginning of something _different_. Whatever that may mean.

Four years of no magic for Lucius and the transformation of Malfoy Manor into a fucking _memorial._ Those were the conditions. Malfoy Manor was to become a war memorial, dedicated to the victims, human and non-human, of Death Eater violence. Its new proprietors: House elves across Wizarding Europe. Sorry, _elves_. Not even important to serve as a monument for muggleborn heroism—no, that right was reserved to the foyer at the Ministry of Magic. Malfoy Manor now stood as the first elf-owned estate. The two watched as their former house elves scurried down the garden to begin conjuring rubble into marble statues. Were they _that_ content with their newfound status?

And so began the new regime. _Liberal twatters_ , his grandfather would have scoffed. After the divorce, effective within weeks of the war's end, Draco's mother had pleaded for him to leave his father and come stay with her and her older sister. Truth be told, he much preferred that option, but seeing his father crumble at the trial… No, it wasn't as if he was concerned or anything. Lucius still had his money, and even though the manor was gone, he could afford a townhouse in the city that was close enough to Muggle London for the Wizengamot to agree to let them live there during Lucius's probation. Plus, Draco knew that staying with his mother might mean putting a block in his plans.

Neither had stepped into the property before its purchase. Their proxy once mentioned that it was "a bit modern for what an aristocratic wizard might be used to," but neither Lucius nor Draco paid the subtle warning any mind. How different could it be from the manor that the Malfoy family purchased centuries before? After apparating himself and his father from what were the remains of the manor to the block where their new home awaited, both Malfoy gaped up at the edifice before them. From the outside, the Victorian architecture—though indeed more modern than the manor—looked unassuming. Though short on square footage, and overall unimpressive, the townhouse Inside, however, both Malfoy men could immediately tell that its previous owner (a young "yuppie" who had since taken up residence in the more "hip" area of Diagon Alley) must have had very little respect for both the house and himself.

Now, sitting across his father at the "breakfast bar" of their _open kitchen_ (both had shuddered at the sight), he could finally say it.

"Father, I've been meaning to talk to you about something." He nervously gripped the sides of the wooden stool beneath him, the smooth surface cooling his sweaty palms. Just yesterday, after the demolition, Draco received a large envelope that secured an option away from all of this.

Paying his son no attention, Lucius was staring blankly at a pack of eggs, then at the stove, then the eggs, and back to the stove. This had gone on for the last five minutes. "Draco, how do I boil an egg?"

"Father, I plan to leave for America in about three months."

"I see." And Lucius left to lock himself back inside his study.

In his bedroom, Draco once again took out the large, opened envelope that he had stuffed into a space on his bookshelf.

 _Dear Mr. Malfoy,_

 _I am very pleased to inform you that…_


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Pills and Alternatives

 **January 1999**

She was fucking exhausted. Nearly a year passed, and still, neither the nightmares nor the paranoia subsided. Hermione Granger, top of her class and popular war hero, pressed herself to a sitting position in her bed. With her left index finger, she traced what remained of the horrible reminder of the torture and pain that she had endured. _Mudblood_ , it still read, even if faintly now. The mark was no longer the pink protuberance that had burned with pain over the months after the skirmish at the Malfoy Manor. Now, paled to a tone lighter than her own skin, she had to lift her arm to her face to make out what it read. Not that she had ever forgotten. Hermione thought it ridiculous for anyone to imagine that, after only a year, she would forget the painful sensory experience of having a racial slur carved on her right arm with a dirty knife by a bloodthirsty maniac.

After the end of the war, Hermione chose to finish her last year at Hogwarts while her best friends immediately welcomed the opportunity to never return. The last battle had left too many open wounds, especially for Ron and Harry, to roam the halls of their once beloved school. Even Hermione, whose parents remained safe throughout the war, continued to feel her insides drop every time she passed through the former battlefield. Wouldn't it all be much easier if she moved on and accepted the position in the Ministry that Kingsley offered?

She pushed the question to the back of her mind with a splash of cold water on her face. Hermione's hair was pulled back into a lose bun as an attempt to control the tight curls that continued to act as if they had a mind of their own without her intervention. That, she could do something about. The dark circles beneath her eyes, though? Not so much. A morose, but clean, version of herself stared at her in the mirror, taunting her. "Bitch." Slinging her messenger bag over her shoulder, she cast her mirror self another glance before walking out to greet yet another day.

True to her personality, Hermione had realized that it would be incredibly unlike her (and against her wishes, if she were being honest) if she allowed anything to be given to her so easily. Most achievements, she convinced herself over the years, required a level of discipline and torture. She traced the scar again. Ironically, even if she had endured torture, the end of the war had only left her with a feeling of incompetence, punctuated by a need to regain some normalcy in her life after what were, she realized, seven years on the frontline. Forcing herself walk through the halls of the battleground meant that she could transform it, even if just in her mind, back into the castle that she first laid eyes on eight years before. When she returned from the holiday break last night and this morning, however, it still felt like the ghost of a combat zone. A graveyard clad in drag as a school.

She waved to Neville as she passed him on her way out, closing the portrait behind her and digging into her messenger bag to find the bottle.

Her mother's voice filled her head. _"Just pop a Xanax, darling. Nothing wrong with that."_ She had meant well.

No. Mrs. Granger had meant well, but the suburban remedy to middle class ennui hardly helped Hermione feel better about her predicaments. She pushed the bottle back into the pocket inside her bag and moved on.

The door to Professor McGonagall's office felt heavier than she last remembered, almost pushing back as she pressed her hands against the handle.

"Miss Granger, good to see you. Welcome back." With an extended hand, the new headmistress gestured for her to sit on the chair before her. "Are you well?"

The young witch took in a breath. _No_ , she wanted to say. _Not exactly what I would call myself these days_. Instead, she muttered a weak "yes" and thanked McGonagall for asking.

McGonagall peered at her over her spectacles, concern furrowing her brow. "It's perfectly fine not to be well, Hermione. That wasn't a pleasantry." For the last several months, these meetings had begun much in the same way, with McGonagall checking in on Hermione as if she feared that the class valedictorian were to shatter at any moment. Though Hermione appreciated these acts, she couldn't help but feel guilty over being the cause of such evident distress. Not that Hermione wasn't happy to meet with her mentor, but they never got too far beyond the perfunctory complaint about how horrible everything had been.

"You don't have to keep it to yourself, you know. The war has left many of us still feeling… out of sorts. Well, to be perfectly blunt, this year has been complete shit. I've gotten myself used to it over the years, but honestly don't how how you students manage to continue walking around here as if you're supposed to focus on taking some stupid test despite everything that happened. It's been complete shit. And the Ministry—well, don't even get me started on that nonsense!"

The younger witch smiled. "It really has been shit, Professor."

"If you do ever want to talk about it"—

"I know. I mean, sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt—I'm thankful for, you know, everything you've done for me this year, but it's just that…" Her voice trailed off and Hermione found herself struggling to concentrate on the spot two feet away from her on McGonagall's desk.

McGonagall's lips thinned in a way that made the wrinkles around them push together as if to suppress further provocation."You're just not ready," the older witch pronounced each word, reciting Hermione's previous responses. "It's all right, Hermione. I just want to make sure that you know that you have many who love and support you within and beyond the Hogwarts community." With a sigh of resignation, McGonagall summoned a two files from the filing cabinet to her left. "As I mentioned in my letter, I wanted to meet with you to discuss certain matters of importance." Her creased but visibly powerful hands reached out to grasp the files and she opened the first. Hermione Granger had achieved the highest marks in her class on all of her N.E.W.T.s . Given this and Hermione's role in the war, McGonagall said, it had been almost too easy to find the young witch an apprenticeship or a position to move on to after graduation. "In fact," she said with a pleased look on her face, "every department in the Ministry, along with St. Mungo's, and a few private businesses in Diagon Alley have shortlisted your name."

"They have?"

"Don't look so shocked. It's only appropriate that you're in demand after all of your accomplishments. They'd be fortunate to have you. And, of course, you're welcome back to the school any time after serving five years in a suitable field. Have you given much thought about next year"

Hermione blew air into her cheeks and shook her head. "I honestly can't say that I have, Professor."

"And are you interested in any of these positions?"

She paused before answering and then, truthfully, replied, "Not exactly. As you said, the Ministry has been.."

McGonagall completed her sentence. "Shit?"

"No… nonsense."

The headmistress smiled. "Same thing. I imagined you might share the feeling. And that's what this second file is for."

 **March 1999**

Four large envelopes sat across from her on the coffee table of her parents' living room, each bearing the name of a possible destination. For the last week, Hermione made her self sit facing her unopened acceptance letters to the four American universities that she had applied to under McGonagall's suggestion.

Her former Transfiguration professor put her in touch with one Dean Ursula Iguarán, administrator of "Wizarding Higher Education" at Ilvermorny. In the United States, McGonagall explained, it was not uncommon for young sorcerers to decide upon a career after two to four more years of schooling. Although Hermione had more than enough options to choose from in London alone, the Hogwarts headmistress had secured five spots for Hogwarts alumni to become Iguarán's international advisees for her burgeoning project in enrolling magically gifted students at "exclusive" divisions in the so-called "ivy league" universities. Through the program, recent graduates from Ilvermorny who had yet to decide on a career but showed promising academic skill could enroll in more advanced versions of their magical courses. To complete the degree, each student had to take at least twelve credits of courses offered in non-magical coursework as part of the program's "diversity initiative." And so, Hermione, along with four other students, had the opportunity to solicit admission to at least three schools of their choice. At the end of April, those who had successfully applied and been accepted to programs were to floo into a hotel in London to meet with Iguarán and McGonagall and review the specifics.

Well, at least her parents seemed pleased. Overjoyed may be an overstatement, but after years of pressing their daughter about the matter of university, this resolution had been more than welcome in the Granger household. Don't misunderstand them—they had always been as supportive of their daughter as they could. Even after Hermione confessed to altering their memories during the war (and confessed to participating in a war), Mr. and Mrs. Granger emphasized their pride in their strange, but talented, daughter, failing to hide their smugness when the Minister of Magic congratulated them on having raised the "such a decorated war hero." Hermione had wanted to explain that this "war hero" was decorated with the honor of regular panic attacks, badges of mental and physical scars from torture, and a strange case of concealing her occasional dependance on a muggle prescription pill. On most days, she felt more like an awful cliché than the intelligent woman that her school teachers, friends, and family members boasted about. But why bother anyone with the nasty intestines of her pristine image after everything she had put them through? For months, she poured herself into her studies, giving all who watched the semblance of the high-functioning, self-sufficient prodigy that did not need to cast a silencing spell on her room to avoid waking anyone who might hear her occasional screaming in the middle of the night. Only her mother had really caught on. " _You know, dear, there's absolutely nothing wrong with using what Dr. Ishiki prescribed._ "

Still, it was no surprise that they held out hope for their daughter to follow what they deemed a "more traditional" path to adulthood. Sure, she had defeated a herd of racists and their deranged leader before turning twenty, but hadn't she heard that the Miller's son started at Trinity this year? What would Hermione do with only ten years of schooling (she had skipped the fourth and fifth grade)? Grangers were "Oxford folk," and it would be such a shame that their only daughter had to miss out on the prestigious experience of being an Oxfordman ("Oxford _woman,_ dad.").

Over their summer holiday, Mr. Granger once asked how she could imagine herself working for an office called "The Department for the Regulation and Control of _Magical Creatures_ , Hermione? Is Nessie going to show up at your desk and demand her pension?" He may have been joking, but Hermione snapped at him and promptly informed him that Nessie had an entire office already dedicated to her care in Inverness that the muggle First Minister of Scotland himself had been appointed to that very year (under a secrecy oath, of course).

"Jean! Jean!" Mr. Granger called out to her mother from the sitting room between chuckles, still amused at his own joke. "You ought to listen to this—the Loch Ness Monster has an office! Does she ever invite that 'Pikachu' creature over for a nightcap?"

Hermione scowled at the memory. Needless to say, her parents were relieved when those four envelopes arrived last week, even when their daughter had yet to decide how she felt.

"A _Harvard woman_ , Will! Oh, just wait until we tell the Millers!" Hermione wanted to tell them that she had chosen Cornell just to shut them up.

 **Late April 1999**

Draco Malfoy strolled along the hallway of the sixth floor of the Alley Plaza Hotel, searching for a sign that read "Conference Room 4." He arrived fifteen minutes early but didn't want to look too eager—that, he thought, was behavior more suitable for the one other Hogwarts alumna who had been accepted into the program. Though it was a mere guess, when McGonagall informed him that only himself and one other had succeeded in attaining admission into the competitive institutions, Draco had a hunch that on this day, he would be attending a premature reunion with someone he sorely hoped to never face again. Finally arriving to the empty meeting space, the name card next to his confirmed his hypothesis. Next, came a knock on the door.

"It's open…" he called faintly, a smirk spreading involuntarily across his lips.

Hermione Granger stepped in, gaped at him for a split second, and then practically jumped out of the room, shutting the door loudly behind her, muttering string of words that should be reserved for a dive bar or the deck of a fishing boat.

"Classy as ever, I see," he noted to no one in particular and waited, still smirking, for her to reenter. He heard the faint rustling of a bag, a soft "pop," and more rustling before she graced him with her delightful presence once more.

Granger seemed to struggle with setting her things down on the table, and even more with taking her appointed seat next to him. After what looked like the most eventful psychological battle of the century, she finally sighed in defeat and sat, scooting a few inches away for good measure. Fifteen minutes passed and Granger had sequestered herself at the edge of her seat, wiggling every couple of minutes to shift her belongings farther and farther away from where Draco sat. Then, as if acknowledging the strangeness of her behavior, she eventually shifted back to the middle of her chair, and open up a worn, leather bound book, glaring at it without ever turning the page.

Draco watched her silently, but became more and more frustrated by her bumbling maneuvers. Clearly aware of his staring, she once again began to lean away, nearly tipping her chair to gain distance.

"Granger, do I _smell_ or something?"

Obviously deaf to his question, she turned to look at him with a mixture of bewilderment and affront. "Really? _You_?"

He rolled his eyes, but before he could retort, he heard a loud snapping sound, followed by a flash of bright purple that announced the entrance of a tall witch with bright yellow robes and long, graying hair. Dean Iguarán beamed at them, with two less flamboyantly dressed wizards apparating in tow.

"Sorry to be late! You know what the no-maj say: CPT! Sorry, I meant muggles, and CPT means"— The wizard to Iguarán's left coughed loudly, interrupting her definition. "Jeez, Mike, _fine_. Let me begin by expressing my sincere congratulations to you both. I am so very excited to welcome you into this program and help you in any way that I can in what I am sure will be successful academic ventures. We are so very lucky to have talented students like yourselves join our ranks!" She smiled widely and turned to the man who had coughed just a moment before. "Mike, the brochures and guidebooks, if you please!"

 _Americans_ , Draco thought sardonically.

Meanwhile, in the short time that it took for both students to register the events that occurred in the last ten seconds, Granger morphed her expression from the glower of a petulant child to the attentive civility of an ass kisser. Draco couldn't wait for this adventure to begin.


End file.
